by Len Levinson
Schuler nodded, a cocky smile on his face. He climbed onto the boardwalk and advanced toward the doors of the Paradise Saloon. The others followed him, and Schuler pushed a drunk out of his way. The drunk went flying into a wall, striking it with his face. Schuler threw open the doors to the Paradise Saloon and stepped inside. His skin tingled with excitement and he wiggled his fingers, keeping them limber. Scanning back and forth through the thick smoke, he saw the Paradise full of men, but John Stone was nowhere in sight.
“I don’t see him,” Schuler said to Casey. “Lemme take a better look. He might be hidin’ behind somebody.”
Casey and the rest of his men stood by the door as Schuler made his way toward the bar. Schuler felt alert and intensely alive, ready to gunfight. He wished John Stone would appear in front of him, so he could gun him down.
Schuler reached the bar and leaned back against it, scrutinizing the people in front of him once more. Stone wasn’t sitting at the tables or standing at the bar.
“What’s your pleasure?” asked the bartender.
“I’m lookin’ for John Stone,” Schuler replied. “Know where he’s at?”
“Ain’t seen him all night.”
Schuler returned to Casey and the others standing beside the door.
“He ain’t here.”
“I can see that,” Casey said dryly. “Let’s check the Acme.”
They turned around and walked out of the Paradise, crossing the street, heading for the Acme Saloon. Casey led the others, with Schuler beside him, wiggling his fingers, working his shoulders, trying to stay loose.
I’m ready, Schuler said to himself. Where the hell is he?
John Stone walked down the middle of the street at the other end of town. It was dark and peaceful, and no stores or other businesses were open. He hoped it’d be an easy night.
Angling toward the sidewalk, he checked a few doors to make sure they were locked. He looked into alleys and glanced up at rooftops. He didn’t think he’d ever walk through a town again without checking the rooftops.
Approaching another alley, he stopped and looked into it. A dark form lay there snoring. Stone walked into the alley and dropped to one knee. Before him lay an old geezer with a gray beard, wearing a ruined narrow-brimmed hat, snoring away. Stone decided he’d better lock him in jail and let him sleep it off, otherwise somebody was liable to rob him in the alley.
Stone lifted the old geezer and threw him over his shoulder, and the old geezer grumbled something, then continued to snore as if nothing had happened. The strong odor of fermented spirits came over Stone, and he coughed as he walked out of the alley. He crossed the street and headed toward the sheriff’s office.
The sound of an out-of-tune guitar came to him. Stone saw a figure on a bench straight ahead, strumming lightly. It was Toby Muldoon, who looked up as Stone approached.
“What you got there, Cap’n.”
“Somebody who needs a place to sleep. What’re you doing out here all by yourself?”
“Just playin’ me old guitar. Buy me a drink?”
Stone tossed him a few coins. Toby reached out and caught them in midair. “Watch yer step, Cap’n. You never know who you’re liable to run into on a dark night.”
Stone continued on his way to the sheriff’s office. He unlocked it, glancing at the reflection in the glass of the roof across the street, but this time there was no head showing at the peak.
He entered the office, unlocked the jail area, and dropped the drunk onto a cot. Then he returned to the main office and lit a lamp. There were no instructions for him. Rawlins was ignoring him as usual, but he didn’t care. In another few weeks Stone would be long gone and Rawlins could have Petie all to himself.
Stone sat at Pritchard’s desk and rolled himself a cigarette. He blew smoke into the air, took out his pistols, spun the cylinders, and dropped them back into their holsters.
Now what? He wished he had a book or a newspaper, but there was nothing to read except official correspondence and that didn’t interest him. Tomorrow he’d have to see about finding some reading material. He thought maybe the girls at Miss Elsie’s had books, those who could read, although their taste probably would be different from his. He’d be willing to settle for a recent newspaper, to find out what was going on in the world.
He leaned back in the chair and placed his boots on the desk. After I finish this cigarette, I think I’ll check the saloons.
Fritz Schuler stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Acme Saloon and moved toward the doors. He was aware that the other members of the gang were watching him, relying upon him to outdraw John Stone, and that made him feel important. He liked to feel important, and hoped someday to take over the gang from Casey, who was getting old and tired, and wasn’t so fast with a gun.
Schuler pushed the doors open and stepped inside the Acme, which was smaller than the Paradise, and the waitresses were said to be prettier. Schuler would like to shoot Stone in front of pretty waitresses, so he could impress them with his shooting skill. He wanted to see the horror on their faces, and then their admiration when they realized he was a great gunfighter. Maybe someday, if he kept on the way he was going, he could become famous, and even newspapers in the East would show his picture and tell the story of his courage and fast hand.
He scanned the Acme from side to side, looking for John Stone, but the tall man wasn’t there. His shoulders went limp and his fingers felt like putty. He’d been keyed up for the fight, but now the tension was leaving him and he felt perturbed. Where the hell is the son of a bitch?
“Looks like he ain’t here,” Casey said.
“How’s about a drink?” asked Hind, the shortest member of the gang, only five feet four. His shirt, pants, and hat were all too big for him, and he looked comical, but he had the soul of a killer and there was nothing funny about him.
“Might as well,” Casey said. “What the hell.”
They walked toward the bar, Schuler leading the way. Schuler pushed a cowboy to the side, because he was feeling mean and looking for trouble. The cowboy caught his balance and said, “Hey!”
Schuler turned and faced him, his legs spread apart and his fingers hanging loose. “You got somethin’ to say to me?” he asked the cowboy.
The cowboy looked at Schuler, saw his tied-down holster and his gunfighter’s stance, and decided he wasn’t ready to push it to the limit.
“Nothin’,” said the cowboy.
“It’d damn well better be nothin’, otherwise I’ll blow yer fuckin’ head off.”
The cowboy sulked off into the darkness, and the Deke Casey gang moved toward the bar. Men got out of their way; the citizens of Petie generally tried to avoid trouble. Schuler pounded the heel of his fist on the bar. “Whiskey!”
The bartender came running with glasses and a bottle, setting them up before Schuler and the others. Schuler poured two fingers of whiskey into his glass and passed the bottle to Deke Casey, then Schuler looked into the glass and saw the reflection of light against the surface of the amber liquid. The light danced and jiggled, and Schuler wished John Stone would walk into the Acme at that moment, so he could gun him down before the large audience that was assembled there.
Casey raised his glass in the air. “To Bloody Bill,” he said.
The members of the gang drained their glasses. Schuler turned around and saw a waitress passing by, carrying a tray covered with empty glasses. Schuler reached out and grabbed her arm, upsetting her balance, and the glasses went crashing to the floor.
“What’s yer hurry?” Schuler asked.
“Git yer hand off’n me!” the waitress replied, a young brunette with freckles on her face, struggling and squirming.
Schuler laughed, pulled her toward him, and kissed her lips, then pushed her away.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and glowered at him. Schuler hoped someone would step forward to defend the waitress’s honor, but no one moved. A little old man with a broom, wearing a stained apron,
came to sweep up the broken glass. The waitress stepped back into the crowd. The atmosphere in the Acme had become tense, and some men drained their glasses, heading for the door.
“Where’s that son of a bitch, John Stone!” Schuler shouted. His voice echoed across the Acme, and no one answered him. Schuler spit on the floor and looked at Casey. “Should we wait for him here, or go out lookin’ for him?”
“Let’s go to his office. That’s probably where he is.”
Schuler felt himself getting angry. He was ready to fight but there was no one to fight with. Walking toward the door, he lashed out with his foot and kicked a table over onto the two men sitting at it, and the men raised their hands to their faces to protect themselves.
“I never seen such a yeller bunch of bastards in my life,” Schuler growled as he walked toward the door.
He stepped onto the sidewalk, and the other members of the gang coalesced around him. Grim-faced, they marched down the street toward the sheriff’s office.
Stone threw his cigarette butt into the cuspidor, where it hissed and went out. He stood, readjusted his gunbelt, and walked toward the door. He thought he’d get a drink and check out the town.
He locked the office and headed toward the Acme, his footsteps sounding on the planks of the boardwalk. A few drunks lolled on benches in front of stores, but the real action was up the street, where he could see the bright lights of the saloons and hear the plinking of pianos.
He saw a group of men moving toward him on the sidewalk. There wouldn’t be room for all of them on the narrow passage between buildings and hitching rails, so Stone jumped down to the dirt and veered toward the center of the street.
The men coming toward him turned and hopped into the street also. Stone thought they were going to cross, but instead they advanced up the middle, heading straight for him. There were six of them, led by a young man with long blond sideburns. Stone moved toward the sidewalk to let them pass.
“Where you runnin’ to, Stone?” asked Fritz Schuler.
Stone stopped in the middle of the dark street. “I’m not running anywhere.”
Schuler walked determinedly toward Stone, feeling the euphoria that preceded a gunfight. “I been lookin’ for you,” he told Stone.
“What for?”
The other members of the gang split up, Casey, Hurley, and Cotler moving to Stone’s right, and Ramsay and Hind moving toward Stone’s left. Stone saw the coalition form in front of him, and it didn’t look good.
“They tell me you’re a coward,” Schuler said, his arms held away from his body, wiggling his fingers.
Stone stiffened his spine and moved his legs apart. The two men faced each other in the middle of the street, staring into each other’s eyes for several seconds, then Schuler stepped forward, his spurs jangling each time his feet touched the ground. Schuler came to a halt about fifteen yards in front of Stone, and the other members of the gang advanced too, moving closer to Stone on both sides of the street.
The crowd in front of the saloons saw the confrontation and heard the words that had passed between Stone and Schuler. They moved cautiously down the sidewalks on both sides of the street, to watch what was going to happen. Schuler hoped some ladies were there, to see him in action.
“So you’re John Stone,” Schuler said. “They tell me you’re a big hero around here.”
The two men looked at each other, still as statues, their hands hanging in the air, fingers loose, ready to reach for their guns. Not far away, Deke Casey winked at the rest of his men, signaling them to get ready, and they moved their hands toward their guns. On the sidewalks, the townspeople watched eagerly, their eyes glittering with excitement.
Schuler smiled. Everybody was looking at him, waiting for him to reach for his guns. John Stone stood solidly in the wan light, a big target, and Schuler didn’t think he could miss.
Stone watched him carefully, alert but not tense, wondering whether he should draw first or let his adversary make the move. He couldn’t help wondering why this man, whom he’d never seen before in his life, wanted to kill him.
The smile vanished from Schuler’s face, and his right hand dived toward his gun, but Stone’s two Colts were already clearing their holsters. Stone held both Colts in front of him and triggered. His gunshots reverberated across the town as Schuler was pulling his pistol out of its holster. Schuler’s last thought was he’s too fast and then both bullets struck him in the chest simultaneously like two sledgehammers, knocking him off his feet. He felt himself falling through space, and spit blood as he pulled his trigger involuntarily. His gun fired wildly, and the bullet flew across the street, hitting a bystander in the shin-bone.
Schuler fell into a clump on the ground, and Stone arose from his crouch, both gun barrels smoking.
“Get him!” hollered Deke Casey.
Casey yanked out his pistol, and a split second later heard the loudest explosion of his life, but he didn’t hear it for long. Sheriff Buck Rawlins was behind him, his sawed-off shotgun in his hands, and he blew Casey’s head to smithereens. Casey’s blood and brains sprayed through the air, and Rawlins pivoted, firing the other barrel into the guts of Tom Hurley, the outlaw with the rat-like face. Hurley went flying backward, and Rawlins charged the third outlaw near him, Cotler, and slammed him in the face with the butt of his shotgun.
Meanwhile, Stone saw two men to his left reaching for their guns. He swung his Colts around and shot a barrage into the stomach of Fred Ramsay, but the last outlaw, Hind, the smallest of the bunch, had drawn a bead on Stone and was squeezing his trigger.
Suddenly, out of the shadows, a cracked violin with a string missing swung down and whacked Hind on the top of his head. Hind’s pistol fired, and Stone felt something hot and terrible punch into his shoulder. Holding steady, he fired both his Colts at Hind, and the impact of the bullets spun Hind around, blood spiraling through the air, as Hind tumbled toward the ground.
All the action had taken only a few seconds. Stone scanned the scene in front of him, holding his pistols ready to fire, but no one else was moving on him. He grit his teeth in pain, and then couldn’t hold up his left arm anymore. It dropped to his side, and his left hand went numb. His fingers lost their ability to grip, and one of his Colts fell to the ground.
He looked at Sheriff Rawlins and Toby Muldoon, the latter smiling broadly, holding his broken guitar in his right hand. The bodies of six men were on the ground in the middle of the street. The crowd of onlookers crept out of the alleys where they’d fled for shelter when the shooting started.
“Is it all over?” one of them asked fearfully.
“Yeah,” replied Rawlins, “this horseshit usually don’t take long.” He looked at Stone and shook his head in derision. “You damn fool—you walked right into them!”
Stone’s blood was soaking into his shirt, and he felt lightheaded. “I didn’t know they wanted to kill me.”
Rawlins pointed at the body lying nearly headless in the middle of the street. “That’s Deke Casey!”
“Who’s Deke Casey?”
“One of the most wanted men on the frontier, and you didn’t know who in hell he was?”
“Never heard of him before.”
Rawlins snorted. “Some deputy sheriff you are. I thought you was supposed to be smart.” He took a few steps toward Stone and saw the widening stain on his shirt. “Looks like you need the doc.”
“I’ll be okay,” Stone said, but he was reeling from side to side, blinking his eyes, trying to hold on.
“I’ll git the doc,” Muldoon said, running away, still holding onto his broken guitar.
Stone felt the black waves pass over him, but he didn’t want to let go. He took a step toward Sheriff Rawlins. “I guess you saved my life, Sheriff. I want to thank you.”
He held out his hand, to shake with Rawlins, but Rawlins sneered and took a step backward. “I was just doin’ my job,” Rawlins said. “You couldn’t handle it yerself, so’s I had to help you out.”
&
nbsp; “Got to sit down,” Stone said weakly.
He took a step toward the sidewalk, stumbled, and fell to the ground. The big black waves swept over him, engulfed him, and carried him away.
Chapter Seven
Rising up out of the dark clouds, John Stone became aware of intense fiery pain in his shoulder from his neck down to his bicep. He opened his eyes slowly, and the attic of Miss Elsie’s place came into focus. Crinoline and old moldy gowns hung over a mirror on the dresser beyond the foot of the bed, and he smelled perfume.
“I think he’s come to,” said a female voice.
Stone turned his head to the side, and saw Dorothy Brenner, the brunette woman he’s saved from the beating by the drunken cowboy, and Veronica, the blonde. They were seated on chairs, and Dorothy was knitting something, while Veronica did crochet work.
“How do you feel?” Veronica asked, leaning over him. She wore a low-cut dress, and he could see the tops of her breasts.
“It hurts,” he replied, and his voice came out like the croak of a frog. “What day is it?”
“Friday.”
Stone closed his eyes and tried to think. He remembered that he’d been shot on Wednesday night. That meant he’d been unconscious for about a day and a half.
“Can I get you anything?” Dorothy Brenner asked.
Stone took stock of himself. He didn’t feel hungry, but could use a drink. “Got any whiskey?”
“Just happen to have a bottle right here,” Dorothy replied.
She poured him a half glass and brought it to his lips. He took a sip, and it helped the pain go away.
“How’s about a cigarette?” he asked.
“Don’t you think you should eat something?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll give you a cigarette if you promise to eat something.”
Veronica rolled the cigarette, and Stone remembered the gun-fight on Wednesday night. If it hadn’t been for Rawlins and Toby Muldoon, he would’ve been killed. The gunmen had outnumbered him six to one, and he’s just blundered into them. It had been another brush with death, and he’d been lucky. Maybe next time he wouldn’t be so lucky.
